


and leaning backward in a pensive dream

by stillicide_snow



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e04 Home, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Secret Santa, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21946645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillicide_snow/pseuds/stillicide_snow
Summary: "Morse's ears and nose are pink with cold, and thick flakes of snow are caught in his unruly hair. There’s snow on the upturned collar of his mackintosh, too, and Jakes has to tamp down a brief urge to brush it away. He doesn’t like untidiness, that’s all."Morse is posted in Witney, and Jakes is doing absolutely fine without him, thank you very much.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 23
Kudos: 69





	and leaning backward in a pensive dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hekate1308](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/gifts).



> Happy holidays @hekate1308! I hope you enjoy your Secret Santa gift, I threw as many cheesy tropes at it as possible.
> 
> Massive massive thank you to @lovely_narcissa for betaing and cheerleading and helping me work out how to get these stubborn idiots to share the damn bed in the first place.

It’s a murder, of course, that sends Jakes back towards Morse.

Only a few weeks have passed since the Coke-Norris case, which started with what should have been a straightforward hit and run and ended with Morse shipped off to Witney while he recovers from a bullet wound, of all things. Jakes still only has half of that story from Strange, and what he’s gathered sounds a right mess – Morse’s stubborn streak out in full force before he disappeared up north for a family emergency – but Thursday isn’t telling and Jakes isn’t sure how to ask.

The station is different without Morse. Not quieter, exactly, as Morse has never been talkative, but Jakes finds himself unsettled without Morse’s painfully slow typing, the clicking of his pen as he mulls a case over. He almost misses the other man’s presence, if only because the rhythm of their mutual antagonism is familiar to him. He still doesn’t know what to do with Morse’s instruction that he take care of Joan Thursday, not mess her about, although it’s academic now.

"It was a nice evening", she’d told him one morning, while the old man was still upstairs, "I had fun. But –" and gentle, apologetic, explained that she didn’t think the time was quite right. He appreciates being told outright, not coddled or avoided, but it stings all the same. He’d seen her leave the Moonlight Rooms with Morse that night, after all. Morse had all but vanished soon after, missing his sergeants’ exam and leaving the whole of CID feeling somewhat off-kilter without him. Jakes is fine, of course. Glad of the chance to get some proper police work done without having to entertain Morse’s wild theories; glad of the return to his hard-earned role as Thursday’s bagman; glad of the respite from Morse’s eyes following him around the office, wide and too knowing by half.

He’s been at the station for an hour or so when Thursday summons him into his office, face impassive.

"There’s been a murder in Bablock Hythe, out near the new reservoir. County’s sergeant over that way’s off with flu so they want an extra pair of hands. You’ve been recommended."

"Sir?"

"Mr Bright’s quite happy to spare you for a couple of days so take a car and head over there now, would you?"

Jakes is torn. He’s pleased to be thought of for the case, and knows logically that his name reaching DIs in County as well as City Police should only be a good thing. But County don’t have the best reputation when it comes to… well, anything, and he’s irked that Thursday and Bright feel able to do without him when they so clearly struggle without Morse. On the other hand Thursday knows Jakes is at a loose end at the moment, and it didn’t exactly sound like a request.

Jakes nods.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

It’s unseasonably cold for the time of year, with days of clear skies giving way to heavy grey clouds as he heads out of Oxford. He winces at the cold even through his gloves and is grateful to find a young PC, shivering in his uniform, there to direct Jakes when he arrives in the village. The crime scene is indoors, thank God, but a terse DI informs Jakes that he’ll spend the day knocking on doors, asking neighbours for any insight on the deceased’s comings and goings.

And then, of course, he’s told who he’ll be knocking on doors with.

"You City boys ought to stick together. I’m sure you’ve missed Morse", the DI says knowingly, and – _bloody hell_ , there he is. Jakes hadn’t seen him when he first entered the house, as Morse is presumably trying to avoid either Jakes or the spot where the dead body had been. He doesn’t look well, in a way that goes beyond the greenish tinge Jakes is used to seeing on Morse when confronted with death. Morse looks smaller than before, with his jacket and rumpled shirt hanging off his hunched shoulders and those wide eyes, when they meet Jakes’, are less stubborn than usual. His sharp edges are gone, but Jakes finds himself instantly disliking the change – they’re not softened, these edges, but blunted. Dulled. It’s clear that he fits in at Witney even less than he did at Cowley.

* * *

Door knocking in Bablock Hythe is, it transpires, exactly the same as door knocking in central Oxford. The locals are typically unhelpful, by turns insular and gossipy. Some clam up at the sight of his warrant card, while others regale him and Morse with rumours and second-hand reports of neighbourhood grudges. The village is small, at least, and they’re able to make their way through most of it fairly quickly. It’s a good thing, too, as snow starts falling thick and fast while they make their way along the main road through the village. It crunches satisfyingly underfoot, but Jakes soon finds his toes numb with the cold, a few degrees lower than in Oxford even without the snow.

Several residents mention a particular neighbour, though, as having butted heads with the dead man. He can feel Morse’s impatience, echoed and amplified each time some pensioner starts to tell them about this apparent antagonism. Jakes is less eager to dismiss the neighbour in question, with the name – Hattersley – familiar to him from a case some eighteen months back. Try as he might, he can’t remember the particulars of that case, but it tugs at the back of his mind enough that he wants to follow it up. Hattersley’s house is deserted but Jakes, determined now, gathers from the cottage opposite that there’s somewhere else they might find him.

"He’s mad for fishing, got a little hut about two mile north of us. Disappears for whole weekends sometimes. You might find him there", a decidedly curious man in his sixties tells them. "Is he what’s done for young James, then?"

"We’re only pursuing enquiries at present, sir", Jakes tells him, "Trying to build a full picture. We’re very grateful for your help."

They’ve barely made it to the end of the garden path before Morse’s impatience emerges in earnest. He manages to keep from saying anything, but Jakes notices the clumsiness with which his normally clever hands pull at the garden gate and steers Morse urgently towards the borrowed car, hoping that the coming outburst can be made somewhat less audible.

"If they’re only going to answer for the sake of settling scores –"

"Hattersley’s got motive, Morse, that’s three people’ve mentioned him –"

"Because he’s solitary? We can be more discerning than that, can’t we?", Morse asks, and yes, Jakes has missed this. He’s missed the rhythm of this bickering, the way they fall so quickly into pushing against each other. He might be relieved, too, to see that the fight hasn’t gone out of Morse completely. Jakes starts to take the car north out of the village, stealing sideways glances at Morse as he goes. His ears and nose are pink with cold, and thick flakes of snow are caught in his unruly hair. There’s snow on the upturned collar of his mackintosh, too, and Jakes has to tamp down a brief urge to brush it away. He doesn’t like untidiness, that’s all.

"Don’t you have a proper coat?", he asks before he can stop himself. Morse turns to stare at him and Jakes, caught out by the sudden quiet in the car, starts to scramble for a thread of conversation. "You must be freezing in this weather. And up" – he realises abruptly that he doesn’t know where Morse is from – "north, as well, when you went home. Aren’t you cold?"

Morse doesn’t respond, just stares at Jakes, nonplussed, until they turn off the road out of Bablock Hythe and start up a dirt track towards the reservoir and, hopefully, Hattersley.

* * *

The track soon narrows to the point that Jakes can’t comfortably take the Jag any further, and he steers it to the side of the road before turning off the engine with a sigh.

"It can’t be far from here", he says, "Best do the rest on foot." Morse doesn’t respond beyond a grimace at the snow gathering against the car window, and Jakes tosses him the keys, trusting that Morse will follow him up the track without looking to see. The light’s fading fast and the snow doesn’t seem to be slowing, so the sooner they can find Hattersley and he can drive back to Oxford the better. He hears the passenger door slam and Morse’s footsteps on the snow, but doesn’t turn around yet. They’re not often together for long without another person acting as buffer, and he doesn’t want to rile Morse if he can help it. The last time he tried to extend an olive branch Morse had all but bitten his head off, and he’d much rather keep their current snappish conversations than return to that coldness.

_You’re trying to buy me off_ , Morse had said. He’s played the words over and over in the weeks since, and they still send a flash of shame through him. He hadn’t thought of it as buying Morse off, not really, although there’s no denying that he’d imagined life in the station would be easier with a newly Detective Sergeant Morse moved to nights. The reality, of course, is that Morse’s departure from Cowley has knocked everyone else out of orbit. They each find themselves turning to someone who isn’t there, Thursday most of all, and stumbling when they remember.

"How’s everyone at the station?", Morse asks suddenly, dragging Jakes from his reverie.

He shrugs at first, then: "That gang business is calming down. The old man’s still not right about it, mind. Strange failed his sergeants’." He pauses. "I’ve not been out with Joan since…" He doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t know why he wants Morse to know, but it feels important. And: "Her decision, not mine. I didn’t mess her about. Scout’s honour." He can feel Morse’s eyes on him, seeing far more than he’s comfortable with, and he reaches into his coat for a cigarette and lighter. He cups both hands around them, trying to protect them from the snow, and steadfastly ignores Morse until the cigarette’s burned all the way down.

What little light there had been is almost totally gone now, and it’s only the bright white of the snow that allows them to see Hattersley’s fishing hut, nestled amongst the trees on the riverbank. The hut’s windows are unpromisingly dark.

"Mr Hattersley?", Morse calls out, presumably demonstrating the same self-preservation instinct that saw him getting shot by a housewife a few weeks ago. Jakes hisses for him to be quiet, but there’s no reply from inside the hut. They approach cautiously, Jakes careful to match his pace to Morse’s although the snow is now several inches deep and deadening the sound of their footsteps. They reach the hut, and Morse calls out again as he knocks, but there’s still no response.

"Maybe he’s down by the river", Jakes suggests. Morse looks at him incredulously.

"In February?"

"I didn’t say he’d be fishing, I said he might be down –" He cuts himself off abruptly, forces himself to speak more gently. "I think it’s worth a look, is all."

Morse doesn’t respond, just stares at him again before starting off towards the riverbank. They have to watch their step, with the thick snow sliding away under Jakes’ feet and leaving him stumbling on frosted-over mud. Morse seems to be faring even worse, and Jakes can’t help but wonder whether he’s cleared for such long days yet. He doesn’t know how to ask; he remembers Morse, in the middle of those opera killings, insisting he was fine barely an hour after being stabbed, determined to see the case through. He’s clearly tired now, but with a set to his jaw that warns Jakes off commenting.

The sun has long since set and the riverbank is clearly deserted so Jakes admits defeat, letting Morse lead them back towards the car. The fishing hut is still dark and silent as they pass, and they have to be even more watchful of where they stand. The snow is starting to let up a little but enough has fallen now that their earlier footprints are invisible. Jakes’ shoes have completely given up the ghost, with several inches of his trousers dusted in snow and his feet numb with cold. He thinks longingly of the relative warmth inside the Jag, then stops short. They’ve been within sight of the car for a few minutes but Jakes suddenly realises that it is utterly stuck, with snow piled up around the wheels on both sides. Morse curses quietly.

"It can’t be too much further to the village", he tells Jakes, "If we walk back now we’ll be able to get a lift back here in the morning for the car."

"No," he says, "that’s got to be the best part of an hour’s walk, even without…" he gestures at the landscape. He’s so cold and so tired, and he doesn’t fancy having to carry Morse back to Bablock Hythe when he inevitably drops. He doesn’t even have gloves. "We go back to Hattersley’s fishing hut and stay there till morning, then shift the car when it’s light."

"Well I’ll stay here, sleep in the car –"

"Morse!" He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose, itching for a cigarette. "It’s below zero. You got shot less than a month ago. Don’t do this now."

There must be something in his tone that gives Morse pause, because Jakes sees him work his jaw once before nodding. Morse pulls his mackintosh close, rubbing at where snow has settled on the back of his neck, before setting off back towards the hut.

* * *

"Small mercies", Jakes says when the hut’s door opens without protest, although the inside is hardly welcoming. There’s a small lamp, which Jakes flicks on, and a radio, but there’s also a lingering dampness and – he glances at the bed in the corner – not a lot in the way of creature comforts.

Wait.

The _one_ bed in the corner.

Jakes can feel himself flushing to the roots of his hair, and prays that Morse will attribute this to the cold rather than anything else. He toes off his shoes but leaves his coat on and perches on the corner of the bed, a movement that seems to jolt Morse from his train of thought.

"Come on, then", he says, "Nothing else to do here, we might as well get some kip."

Morse is frozen to the spot. His eyes dart from Jakes to his shoes to the door, determinedly avoiding the bed. He takes his coat off and it isn’t until he makes to lay it out on the floor that Jakes realises what he’s doing.

"Come off it, you’ll catch your death down there. We’ll have to share", Jakes says. He’s desperate for a cigarette but his hands are shaking so much he doubts he could even work his lighter, and they’ve been in here too long for him to pass the unsteadiness off as being entirely down to the cold. Morse still hasn’t moved. "Morse", he teases gently, "Are you ignoring a senior officer?" It at least gets Morse to shuffle over to the foot of the bed, where he carefully removes his shoes before sitting, back ramrod straight, as far from Jakes as possible. Jakes rolls his eyes and peels the blankets back, suddenly exhausted by the events of the day, and lies down. Morse takes a while to do the same, fussing with his shirt and the collar of his mackintosh, but eventually he turns the lamp off and lies down beside Jakes.

He’s totally rigid. Jakes can sense the tautness running through his body, even though Morse has taken care to lie as close to the edge of the bed as he can. He’s in danger of falling out and onto the floor. Jakes isn’t much better, though he’s sure Morse’s uneasiness is for a very different reason from his own. They’re both laid out on their backs and he chances a look at Morse in the dim light. Every line of his body is tense, tightly controlled, and he seems barely to be breathing. His eyes are perfectly still for once, and Jakes has to tear his own gaze away from the silver moonlight caught in Morse’s hair.

"I hope Thursday knows it’s his fault if I die of frostbite", Jakes says in an attempt to relax Morse somewhat, but the other man doesn’t respond beyond a questioning hum. "His fault I’m out here", he clarifies, "filling in for your sergeant. Said I’d been recommended."

"Oh." It isn’t so much said as breathed, and Morse seems somehow more tense than he was a moment ago. "I – that is, I recommended you."

_Why?_ , Jakes wants to ask, but he finds – as is so often the way with Morse – that he doesn’t know how to ask. He can’t imagine why Morse would want Jakes anywhere near him, no matter how miserable he is out at Witney. He thought Morse would find these weeks a relief, same as Jakes himself has, an opportunity for respite from a colleague who apparently can’t abide him.

The fact that Morse recommended Jakes, either because he missed his company or because he respects his abilities as sergeant, has Jakes reeling a little. Morse is clearly a brilliant detective, but he’s prickly at the best of times. Jakes always feels unwelcome when Morse is focussed on a case, and he can’t reconcile that with Morse inviting him onto this one, especially given that he’s still totally rigid in the bed beside Jakes.

He realises abruptly that he still hasn’t responded to Morse’s revelation.

"Thanks", he says gruffly, and they lapse back into silence.

He can’t relax with Morse beside him, so tense he seems to be almost shaking with it. Then he steals another glance at Morse and realises he really is shaking. His jaw is clenched shut seemingly to keep his teeth from chattering, and there’s still damp snow clinging to his hair.

"Bloody hell, Morse, come here", he says before he can help himself.

Morse doesn’t respond for a few seconds, then "What?"

_In for a penny_ , Jakes thinks.

"You’re freezing, come here before you start losing toes." Jakes shifts so he’s lying more on one side, lifts his arm up and gestures for Morse to come closer. It takes a moment, one he uses to steady his breathing before Morse is too close not to notice, but Morse acquiesces again and presses himself closer to Jakes.

And to think he’d considered Morse lacking in self-preservation. It’s a relief to have another body there as a source of heat, but knowing it’s Morse makes it almost too much to bear. He’s hyperaware of every place their bodies touch – knees, elbows, his sternum against Morse’s shoulder – and he lifts his head slightly to keep his nose from brushing Morse’s ear. He can’t help but see the moonlight in Morse’s hair now.

"Thank you", he says, "for bringing me on the case." He just doesn’t understand why. Morse turns his face towards Jakes’, presumably to answer, and –

Jakes never knows how to ask when it comes to Morse. This time, though, it’s easy.

He leans forward, just slightly, and presses his lips to Morse’s.

There’s a beat, a moment where he holds himself still, fights the instinct to panic and move away. And then he feels Morse smile against his mouth, and the relief feels like a spring thaw spreading through his body.

* * *

It’s silent when he wakes.

He resists opening his eyes at first, wanting to stay in the blanketed stillness brought by the snow and the warmth of the body beside him. He’s moved in his sleep, his arm no longer resting along his side but curled around Morse’s, his hand tucked into Morse’s jacket for warmth. His other arm is completely numb, and one foot that has escaped the blankets is freezing. He doesn’t care.

He opens his eyes.

The small fishing hut is almost unnaturally bright, the snow outside reflecting the daylight even though it can’t be long past dawn. It’s strange at first, to see the place properly lit when they’d stumbled about in the lamplight last night. Morse’s hair, tickling his nose, no longer has the silvery quality of moonlight, but it’s different from usual as well. The colour is more vivid in this light, and this close he can make out variations in shade he’s missed before.

It feels almost brand new.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Title is from a Matthew Arnold poem which mentions Bablock Hythe. It is a real place! About eight people live there. Also - there really was a lot of snow in Oxfordshire in February 1966, which is good if like me you desperately need fanfiction to be historically accurate.
> 
> This is my first ever fanfic so feedback is very welcome!! I'm also on Tumblr @flashbastard.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] and leaning backward in a pensive dream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061921) by [stillicide_snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillicide_snow/pseuds/stillicide_snow)




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